


Five Times Dean Doesn't Kill Sam and One Time Sam Begs Him to (Again)

by sarahjeanne21



Category: Supernatural
Genre: 5 Things, 5 Times, 5+1 Things, Gen, Graphic, Hurt/Comfort, Sad Sam, Slow Burn, Suicidal Sam, Suicidal Sam Winchester, Torture, big boy words, im sorry, mostly canon compliant, season 5, voicemail fix it
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-01-21
Updated: 2017-04-11
Packaged: 2018-05-15 09:57:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 11,084
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5781484
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sarahjeanne21/pseuds/sarahjeanne21
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>5 + 1 set in season 5, directly from the point they're zapped onto the plane. There are some miscommunication after the voicemail, Sam thinks Dean wants to kill him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Man, Alone

They’re on a plane. Sam’s insides feel itchy and a little like concrete, but it feels different than when Cas zaps them around. Less violent. Dean doesn’t know much more than him, but they can see the church being completely decimated below them.

They’re on a plane and Sam is absolutely certain of two things. One, Dean is going to puke his brains out and Sam lost the privilege of helping him. Two, Dean was probably going to kill him sometime in the near future. He was trying not to be too anxious about it.

Dean is sitting window, white knuckling the arm rests and staring straight ahead. Sam kept glancing over at him, opening and shutting his mouth. He hadn’t planned an apology because he never thought he’d be around to give one.

“You saw me, didn’t you?” Dean grits out finally, blinking at the space in front of him.

“What?” Sam asked. He thought Dean would go a more direct route, with accusations and threats and knives. But he never really knew with Dean, these days.

“Before Ruby or who the hell ever closed the doors at Saint Mary's. You heard me yelling for you.” It’s more of a statement than anything, Sam doesn’t really need to respond.

“Yeah.”

Dean nods, leans away from Sam like the demon blood might catch. Sam thinks about telling him he’s sorry, he was wrong, he’s a terrible person, but Dean knew that already. Dean was going to kill him whether he said it out loud or not.

Dean goes to the bathroom ten times before they land, and the flight attendants had to physically block off the aisle when Dean tried to get up during a rough patch of turbulence. He doesn’t ask for Sam’s barf bag this time.

He’s still green and sweaty when they silently jack a red Subaru in the airport parking lot, Dean shaking behind the wheel and Sam trying to melt into the passenger's seat. Sam is wondering where they’re headed, where Dean wants to kill him. He wonders how Dean’s gonna do it, if he’s gonna draw it out (Dean's always been one for theatrics) or just put a bullet in him and ditch the body. Sam really fucked up, here. Dean deserved a little therapeutic closure, and Sam would give him whatever he needed.

“So. I know-ah-look. Sam. It’s not gonna be easy, but we can fix this,” Dean says, strained and uncomfortable. Sam doesn’t know how to tell him how on board he is with the plan-it would probably cheapen the whole thing for Dean, anyway-so he lets Dean avoid eye contact and go thirty over.

“I know. It’s okay.”

“Right. Okay,” Dean says slowly. He shoots Sam a weird look and they let the conversation drop off.

“Did you get my message?” Dean asks as they pass mile marker 343.

“Yeah. Whatever you need, Dean.” Sam says. Dean gives him another look Sam doesn’t have the energy to decode. “I know I messed up.”

“Kind of an understatement.”

“Yeah.”

“How much did you drink?” Dean asks too loudly.

“I-uh.” Sam had to clear his throat and start again. “I drained a nurse. She begged me to stop, but I thought. You know.”

Dean clenched his jaw, pretended he didn't hear the last part. “So we’ll have to stop at Bobby’s, then.”

“The demon blood’s gone. Whatever zapped us onto the plane must’ve taken the demon blood with it. I’m clean, Dean,” Sam wasn’t sure Dean would believe him, but he could feel the lightness in his bones, the dull ache where there used to be the buzz.

“Look. Sam. I’m sorry it turned out this way,” Dean gripped the steering wheel tighter, like he always did when he was uncomfortable.

“I know,” Sam replied, and he did. He knew what this would do to Dean, he knew what he’d done to the world. Sam was a vampire, a freak. Dean was going to kill him. “I’m sorry.”

Dean nodded, looked like he was going to say something more, but turned on the radio instead. Some stations were static but most were up and running, and the ones that were didn’t seem to let on about the apocalypse. Dean was in the middle of trying to find a soft rock station when he tells the radio that Sam’s eyes went black.

“What?” Sam flinches away instinctively, hands flying up to feel his face. Just in case he'd grown horns, as well. Or something.

“The angels showed me. You killed Lilith and your eyes went black.” Dean's tone reminds Sam of John, when he was trying to tell Sam he resented him without really saying it. Sam thinks he’s going to be sick.

Dean looks over, disgusted, when Sam starts gagging into his fist.

“Jesus Christ, Sam, not on the leather-” Dean pulls the car over and Sam stumbles out. There’s not a lot in his stomach, but what comes up is red and nasty and it burns like hot knives in his throat and lungs.

Dean is standing against the car, waiting for Sam to finish. Sam chokes back the dry heaves and lays his forehead on the cool dirt. Dean could shoot him, now. Sam was a demon (a blood sucking freak) and he deserved whatever Dean had planned.

Dean dragged him back to the car by his shirt and peeled away, Sam shivering and guilty beside him.

“I’m sorry, Dean,” Sam’s words were thick, like they'd gotten stuck to the back of his throat on the way out and Dean still didn’t respond.


	2. I Dream in Words

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sam and Dean are on different pages. Dean doesn't kill Sam (no matter how bad Sam wants him to).

Sam still had nightmares about choking Dean. It was always the same: they’d be fighting, Dean would punch him, and Sam would feel himself snap. He would grab out at Dean, wrap his hands around Dean’s neck and squeeze and squeeze as Dean said things like _please, Sammy_ and _you’re a monster, you’re never going to change_. Eventually the anger would bleed out of him and he’d deflate, fear rushing in to fill him right back up and he still couldn’t stop. He would watch himself choke his brother to death night after night and nothing changed. He’d always kill Dean before he could rip himself out of the nightmare. He’d wake up sobbing and most of the time alone.

After, when he’d calmed down his breathing and maybe retched painfully into the shitty motel toilet, he’d stare at his hands for hours and hours. Because the dream wasn’t just a nightmare, it was memory. It was disgusting how clouded he’d been, so high on the blood he couldn’t see how low he’d gotten. And after all that, he still craved the buzz to take the edge off ending the world.

Sam botches the next hunt because he hadn’t really slept in a while and coffee wasn't doing the trick anymore. They walk away whole but not in the best shape. They're only a few hours out from South Dakota, so Dean steers them to Bobby's to recuperate.

The drive starts off a little shaky. By the time they hit Duluth Sam is about ready to jump out of the car. Dean takes turns glaring at Sam and glaring out the window, the knowledge that Sam almost killed them settling in the seat between them. He bitches at Sam every few miles, _I know you don’t care much about your life, but if you could give two shits about mine, that would be nice_ and _I swear to God if you don't stop fidgeting I'll kick you out of this car_ ~~~~or _Jesus, Sam, you weren’t distracted by…anything…right_? Sam knows Dean is talking about demon blood and his stomach curls. _No, I wouldn't_. And they’ve still got a couple hours to go.

Sam takes Dean’s passive aggressive quips up the ass because what could he do, really? What did he deserve to do? He’d messed up, Dean got a sprained ankle and a bruised rib.

They get to Bobby’s just in time, Dean about two minutes from screaming right in Sam’s face and Sam about to fall apart, pale and crowded against the passenger door. Dean storms out, slamming the door behind him and limping up Bobby’s porch. Sam takes a few minutes to get it together. It’s been awhile since Bobby’s seen him cry and he’s not about to break down over _this_ , of all things.

Sam mainly stays out of the way. He knows he’s Dean’s plus one, here, and he doesn’t really have a lot to say these days that aren’t apologies. He leaves Dean and Bobby to talk about the Devil and Sam’s mess while he cleans the oozing gashes stretching along his side in the guest bathroom.

He finds some first edition book on Enochian symbolism and hides in Bobby’s library until he’s called down for dinner. The chili doesn’t go down as well as it used to and he can’t look at Bobby without hearing ‘lose my number.’ He retires early, thanks Bobby for his hospitality and involuntarily flicks his eyes over to Dean. He sees disappointment, red hot rage and his stomach turns over into a messy knot. He cleans his side one last time before settling down in the cramped attic, leaving the guest room for Dean.

His eyes feel too heavy to shut, his side feels like it’s on fire and the small cot he’s curled up on is too lumpy to call a bed. At two in the morning, he get’s up to take a leak and hears hushed voices echoing up the stairs.

Sam pads over to the kitchen hallway and listens.

“You can’t tell me you’re still holding that against him?”

“What, like you aren’t? It’s the end of the world, Bobby. That’s more than just a screwed up hunt, that’s seven billion people’s _lives_.”

“I realize that, Dean, but look how hard he’s trying. The first thing he wanted to do when he got here was head for the library. I had to guilt him in to resetting his knee.”

“So what, he’s finally decided to take orders. It’s a little too late to roll over and play nice, don’t you think?”

“Son, he’s not just rolling over and playing nice. He's giving up. He’s throwing in the towel and letting you drag him around until he decides to _really_ give up.”

There’s a pause, the sloshing of a drink being poured-whiskey, probably.

“You think he’s going to kill himself?” Dean asks gruffly.

“I think he’s not going to hang around playing dead forever.”

“Yeah, well. You got that right.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“All Sam wants is to fix his mess so he can have a clear conscious when he ditches me again. For college, or his normal life, or whatever.”

“Where the hell did you get that idea?”

“I just-it’s Sam. He's always running. And he keeps talking like he’s never gonna see me again after all this.” There’s another pause, more whiskey being poured, and then Dean starts again, quieter. “Bobby, I can’t drag him around and pretend like there’s not a ticking time bomb on us. Either the world ends, or me and Sam save it just in time for him to take off.”

“You wanna ditch him before he ditches you,” Bobby says, and he’s not asking.

There’s silence, the sound of glass clinking. Dean doesn’t deny it. Sam can imagine how guilty Dean looks, sad eyed and beaten down. Sam goes back upstairs, lays down with his full bladder and his older brother's misplaced guilt. Dean was more than fed up with him, he got that. He understood that Dean wanted to kill him and apparently he wanted to do it before Sam managed to run off again. He stares at the wooden ceiling and can't bring himself to feel much of anything.

The next day, Dean decides they’ve recuperated enough and hauls Sam away. Sam thanks Bobby again, smiling small and polite and forcing himself to meet Bobby’s eyes.

"I'm-I'm really sorry, Bobby. And thank you, uh, for everything. Really."

"Why does this goodbye sound more permanent than most?"

"I started the apocalypse. I just wanted to say it while I still could."

Bobby raises his eyebrows at that but Dean was honking at Sam to get in the car.

Twenty hours later, Dean pulls into a motel and gets them a double. He doesn’t kill Sam and Sam doesn’t say anything about it. They fall asleep without saying a word to each other.

Sam knows he’s dreaming but he chokes Dean to death all the same. Dean lies underneath him, still warm, tears leaking out of his opened eyes. Dean’s hands fall from where they were clutching Sam’s shirt and Sam can’t wake himself up. He’s half convinced he’s not dreaming this time, with Dean’s dead body right the fuck underneath him and it’s staring at him. Sam stumbles away, nearly trips over his own feet and finds Ruby’s knife shoved at the bottom of Dean’s duffel. Sam stabs himself with it, rips the blade through his chest and stomach and arms until he’s more blood than skin. Either he’s going to wake up or he’s going to Hell. Either way, he’s getting away from his big brother’s dead body.

He wakes up-finally-face wet and chest heaving erratically. After he rubs the image of his blood all over Dean’s body from his eyes he realizes Dean is sitting at the kitchen table, watching him. Sam stills when he sees the gun resting on Dean’s knee. Okay. Dean was ready, he guessed. Okay.

“What did you dream about?” Dean asks softly. His voice sounds unnaturally loud against the quiet of the room.

“Clowns,” Sam answers after a beat. He’s staring at the gun when he says, “it’s okay, Dean,” even though Dean probably doesn’t care if Sam thinks it’s okay or not. Dean snorts.

“It’s really not.” Dean turns away from Sam, starts field stripping the gun like that’s why he had it out in the first place. Sam exhales, loudly, and doesn't fall back asleep. 


	3. The Pitfalls of Blind Faith

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Set after Dark Side of the Moon, Sam is having some mental problems from their trip to heaven. So is Dean.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ayoo new chapter is up :) I'm really enjoying dragging out this slow burn. Just so you know.

Sam was 100% sure there must have been a mix up somewhere, because there’s no way the devil’s vessel gets an express pass to heaven. That might’ve been why his “road” or whatever was so off. Maybe the demon blood in him messed with the wavelengths in heaven and he created, like, a little cloud of distortment. It would explain a lot.

It stung like a bitch to hear that God had up and left. No one was going to answer his prayers, no one was even listening in the first place. God and everything God related had rejected him. Not that his faith was doing so hot before their trip to heaven, this just sealed the deal. Heaven didn’t want him, Earth didn’t fit him _before_ he started the apocalypse. The only place left for him was Hell, and even he wasn’t that low yet. Sam was well and truly alone.

So Sam was taking a page out of Dean’s books and drinking his problems away. And Sam was very, very drunk.

He didn’t like to drink. He didn’t like the detachment or the liver damage, but fuck it. He wasn’t going to make it out of his twenties anyway. He’d never planned for this, he’d wanted to die in a convent three months back.

Speaking of, Dean was supposed to kill him. Sometime. Sam didn’t think about that. If he did, he did it quietly, in the middle of the night, because the more he thought about it the more he wanted it. He was a coward, he was a terrible brother. But he wanted his brother to kill him more than he wanted to save the fucking world.

Sam loses that train of thought when Dean claps a hand on his shoulder, hard, paying for Sam’s drinks and hauling him off his chair.

“I’m supposed to be the one sulking, asshole,” Dean grumbles, shoving Sam out the back door. Dean leads him down the alley way, slams him into a wall.

“Wha-Dean?” Sam slurs, grabbing at the back of his head, which bounced loudly off the brick.

“I know you don’t wanna be here and everything, but it’d be nice if you could pretend, huh?” Dean snarls.

“No-I know, just until I fix this, right?” Sam answers, squinting. What did Dean want to hear?

“Just until you fix this,” Dean repeats, clenching his jaw. He fists his hands in Sam's shirt and shakes him, throws him into the brick again and grits out, “You’re gonna clean up your mess and take off again. You’re all I’ve got left. You get that?”

“I’m sorry, I messed it up, ’m sorry. Dean, I fucked up,” Sam’s babbling, half out of his head with alcohol and Dean can’t stand one more second of Sam apologizing.

He cracks Sam’s head into the brick again. Sam’s supposed to push him away, here, but he doesn’t. He just looks down at Dean in a way that makes Dean’s stomach roil with guilt. Dean punches him.

Sam’s still giving him that look (he doesn't even stop to wipe the blood off his face), so Dean punches him again and throws him onto the concrete. He kneels next to Sam and punches his face, his stomach, smears Sam’s blood on his knuckles like some kind of retribution until he realizes Sam isn’t fighting back. He drags Sam into a sitting position, growls, “fight back, asshole,” into his face.

“I can’t-no, Dean,” Sam slurs.

“Sam,” Dean pleads.

“‘S fine,” Sam breathes, his voice soaked in blood, spitting out flecks of red. His eyes droop and Dean hates the resignation he sees there, so he cracks him in the face again. And again. And again, like if he hurts Sam enough he’ll start to care.

Then he drags Sam to the car. Sam cradles himself in the passenger seat while Dean pretends he isn’t there.

Dean throws the first aid kit onto Sam’s bed and lets him clean himself up while Dean gets very very drunk. He resets Sam’s jaw a little too hard (Sam barely even winces). Then he watches Sam crawl into bed-still bleeding-as Dean settles into the kitchen table, a bottle of whiskey between his legs.

“I don’t know where the hell I went wrong with you,” Dean says quietly. He hates himself the second the words come out-he’s not one for recycling Dad’s old lines-but Sam’s too drunk to tell if Dean really means it or not.

“I’m sorry, ‘s my fault,” Sam answers, eyebrows drawn and face pinched until he passes out.

 

* * *

  

This time, Sam realized he was dreaming before he even got his hands around Dean’s neck. Dean was screaming at him, about how he saw the future and Sam said yes, and Dean figured as much but now he knows for sure. Dean pulls out his gun but Sam is already on him, choking him with too much enthusiasm and knocking the gun away.

Then the devil shows up.

Lucifer watches Sam, encourages him while Sam just squeezes tighter. Lucifer tells him he’s kind of messed up. That he should probably work through these deep seated issues before it’s too late. Sam listens, but doesn’t look away from Dean’s bloodshot eyes. He listens to Lucifer, telling him the people he’s killed, the list of demons he’s sent out on a killing spree and Sam squeezes tighter. Dean is choking, clawing at Sam’s hands and Sam squeezes tighter.

After, when Dean was lying dead, eyes wide open and neck blotchy with red and purple, Satan comforts him. He curls Sam in his arms, wipes the tears off his face and runs his hands through his hair. Sam stares, catatonic, at his big brother while Lucifer holds him. He’d killed his brother again.

Sam hates himself as he leans into Lucifer, relaxes against the devil’s chest and lets him rub his back. He hadn’t touched anyone in months.

Sam woke up screaming. Dean is there, shushing him and combing through his sweat soaked hair. Sam doesn’t feel how bad Dean’s shaking. Sam bites down on his screams, he can’t stop crying. He forces his muscles to relax. His dreams didn't normally last long. Dean didn’t let him sleep in.

"Fuck, Sam. Was it a bad one?" Sam doesn't answer, doesn't even have the energy to flinch when Dean drags his hand back up to rub at his scalp. 

“It’s okay, Sammy," Dean says softly, trying to tug Sam's head over to look him in the eyes. 

“Don’t call me that.”

“What? Sam, are you okay?”

“Stop. Stop it.” The hands stop moving.

“Hey, whatever you were dreaming about, it’s over.”

“Stop touching me. I don’t. Goddammit, I’m not going to say yes.” Sam was breathing hard, Dean scooted backwards on the bed.

“I know you’re not,” Dean says, but he doesn’t sound that convinced.

“Do whatever you want, you’ve got a few hours left.” Sam's voice wavers because the torture is a million times worse when it’s Dean that’s dishing it out.

“What the hell, Sam?” Dean croaks, hunching away from Sam. 

“You’re doing a terrible job, this time,” Sam tells Lucifer.

“What do you mean, this time?” Lucifer (Dean?) asks.

“I mean normally you’ve got Dean down to a T,” Sam turns away from the hands still resting in his hair, looks over at Dean’s empty bed. “He doesn’t call me that anymore.”

Lucifer inhales sharply, looks halfway to pissed already. The torture would probably be bad tonight.

“Look. I’m not saying yes right now, just let me wake up and you can try again tomorrow-”

“You’re still dreaming about him?” Lucifer asks, voice clipped. Sam feels him stand up, and he gets the feeling he really screwed himself over.

“Let me wake up,” Sam says quietly (he’s not begging, he’s _not_ ).

“You are awake, dumb ass. Lucifer’s still getting into your dreams?” he growls, and _there_ was the Dean Sam knew.

“...Dean?”

“Of course I’m Dean, Jesus. You didn’t even think to mention Lucifer’s still trying to manipulate you?”

Sam's a little behind, still trying to match this Dean to the one telling him it was okay, the one combing his hair.  _If_ this was Dean and  _if_ he was actually awake, then Dean was confusing the hell out of him.

“I’m handling it, and I’m not going to say yes-”

“You keep saying that,” Dean says.

“I’m not! I’ve done enough, Dean. I’m not. He doesn't even come that often-” Sam winced his way through that lie “-so unless you’ve got some great idea, you just need to trust me.” Dean _does_ have a great idea, though. Dean could fix this up, no problem. A quick gun shot out in some secluded forest and this would be over. The look in Dean’s eyes tells Sam they’re on the same page.

Sam sat on his bed quietly as Dean scrutinized him. He waited for Dean to pull out his gun or his knife or tell him to get up or _something._

“Fine, Sam. But don’t ask me to trust you. Do whatever you need to do, but don’t expect anything from me.”

Sam knew this was on him. He’d broken their trust into tiny shards with jagged edges and now they were tiptoeing their way through it.

“No. Right. I’ll just-don’t worry. I’m not gonna screw up again.”


	4. I Hope we all Die

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sam and Dean find a hunt. It reminds Sam of himself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey. Thank you so freaking much. Nothing at all in this world makes me happier than you guys commenting (and all the kudos) on my fics. So if you've ever left a comment on anything I've ever done, just know I reread them when I'm sad or bored or angry. I love them all. And I love all of you. Literally. You guys are the actual best people.
> 
> Anyway.. the title is from No Children by Mountain Goats. It's some pretty good indie folk rock.

The next week Dean is gone and Sam is pissed. After Sam’s stuck around _this long_ to try and fix it, Dean’s just. Done. That’s it. He’s throwing in the towel because he can’t stand Sam anymore and he lost his faith. Sam would’ve shot himself months ago if he was playing by the same rules.

Cas manages to track him down before he can do anything stupid. Dean is being stubborn again, not listening to anyone about anything even when he knows he’s wrong. Sam’s not sure how to pull him back from the edge, this time. And then Adam shows up.

It’s the first point for team Winchester. They’ve got another player, another redo button on the kid brother they’d never met. He was a little lost, a little manipulated but Sam could turn him around. He’d learned from the best.

Adam never came around but Dean did. They leave the warehouse where they started, not really talking and without Adam.

Sam tacks Adam onto his list of failures and Dean adds a little to his daily alcohol intake. They don’t talk about it but it’s there, weighing them down like wet clothes.

* * *

 

They pick up a trail of missing virgins and household pets in Oregon. They track it south, all the way to Winnemucca, before Sam finds some left over ritual scattered around city owned property. Luckily, there aren't a lot of spells involving the bones of a Norwegian baby goat and twelve virgins. Bobby digs up some Neo-Celtic binding ritual that will-theoretically-turn you into a God.

“All you have to do is commit patricide, eat a couple kids, and sacrifice a whole boatload of other shit,” Dean tells Sam, shoving his phone back in his jeans.

“So it’s still human until the ritual’s complete?”

“Human enough for normal bullets to work,” Dean grabs his keys off the coffee table. “What level of fucked do you have to be to kill your entire family?” He asks, and Sam smiles thinly.

“Pack up, I’m going to make a stop before we leave.” Dean shoves out the door before Sam can ask where he’s going. He picks Sam up three hours later, the back seat stocked with whiskey and beer.

The car ride is brittle with tension, nothing to discuss except the case.

“So, what? He drinks whoever’s blood the spell tells him to and then he moves on to the next town?” Deans asks.

“Looks like,” Sam mutters back, clenching the news clippings in his hands, reading them over for the eighth time.

“This freak thinks killing innocent people, including his entire _family_ , is worth becoming a God,” Dean spits. Sam sees his jaw twitch and thinks maybe the case is hitting a little close to home for Dean, too.

Sam doesn’t answer, Dean hasn’t needed him to answer in a long time. Sam was the freak sitting passenger, the guy on a leash who was barely human enough to help out on hunts.

“Have you memorized those yet?” Dean asks and Sam jerks the the file closed, shoves it under his leg. “Sam. Wake up man, we’re an hour out.”

Sam nods. Yeah. He should wake up. He didn’t sleep last night. Sam needed to wake up.

“Okay.”

So what, the case was personal. It was a job, and Sam owed Dean as much.

* * *

 

Finding the guy turned out to be a bit messier than they’d hoped. The freak hits a city, this time. The policemen are stubborn dicks and there’s almost seventy different places he could be hiding out in. They ditch the police almost right away and spend the first few days combing the city left to right.

Dean decides they’re working too slow, so Sam jacks a truck and takes off in the opposite direction.

Sam’s leaving another warehouse completely empty handed and he’s probably had way too much time to think, way too much time on his own. He’s dreading meeting back up with Dean, dreading the mistrust and disappointment Dean doesn’t even try to hide anymore.

Sam slouches back to his stolen truck and rests his head on the wheel. He shifts into gear, pulls out his phone, and listens to Dean’s voicemail.

He plays it regularly, especially when he starts to feel like Dean might forgive him, or when he’s having a decent day. It’s gotten to the point where he’d play it  just to clear his head. There’s something in Dean’s voice that cuts right through Sam, leaves him hollow and low.

This is how he knows Dean will kill him. This is how Sam knows he broke his big brother.

Sam plays the voicemail again and takes off to the next warehouse. Dean calls him a bloodsucking freak and he closes his eyes against the empty road. He can feel his gun digging into his back like an invitation. He shifts around until he’s driving with his knee, one hand on his phone and the other holding the gun against his temple.

Dean is sitting shotgun, suddenly, and Sam nearly throws his phone at Dean’s face. He snaps his phone shut, swerves back into his lane. He pulls the gun away from his head as calmly as he can manage.

“Sam?” Dean asks warily, because Sam’s still holding the gun.

“Jesus, what the hell?” he half yells at Dean. He throws the gun onto the seat, casual. Dean eyes it with disgust, Sam knows Dean’s opinion on suicide. His eyes travel up to Sam, expression not shifting an inch. Sam wants to scream.

“Sam,” Cas nods from the back. Sam stiffens and nods back. Cas wasn’t there for him.

“What are you doing?” Dean asks.

“I was-I’m, uh-checking my voicemails…” Sam trails off. Dean shakes his head, like he didn’t think Sam could get so low (Dean has no idea, he has no fucking clue how low Sam has been, Sam’s dirt, Sam’s headed to Hell) but doesn’t press it.

“We were supposed to meet at the motel an hour ago.”

Oh.

“I lost track of time-”

“Right.” Dean just shakes his head and eyes Sam like he’s lost it (to be clear, Sam definitely lost it).

“I’m sorry, I just-”

“Did you find anything?”

Sam blinks at Dean for a second, trying to read exactly how pissed Dean was. He couldn't be sure, but Dean looked pretty freaking pissed. “No. Did you?’

“Not yet. I called up Cas, figured he could look a hell of alot faster than us . The sooner we end this freak the better,” Dean’s eyes harden and Sam flinches.

This is what it will be like, after Sam dies. Dean and Cas, killing the bad guys. Dean and Cas. Or maybe Dean will settle down with Lisa, have a normal life. Sam would like that.

“I will look for him tonight. You two should rest,” Cas looks at Sam through the rearview mirror. Sam stared deliberately out the windshield and took them back to the motel.

Dean left Sam to carry their duffel in, Cas still trying to undo his seatbelt. They jammed up in the backseat because no one ever used them.

“You’re keeping something from him,” Cas says, and Sam hits his head on the roof of the car.

“I’m-they’re-they affect me. No one else,” Sam says, rubbing his head.

“Like the demon blood?”

Sam doesn’t respond. This was completely different, right?

“He’s not going to stay forever, Sam,” Cas says, low, before following Dean inside.

The rest of the night is shit, Sam researching uselessly on the laptop while Cas and Dean made easy conversation on the other side of the room. Sam had the feeling he was interrupting adult time, Cas and Dean censoring because they didn’t want Sam to hear. He tried to tune them out, but his headphones had broken last week and he didn't have the money to replace them.

Eventually, Cas left with a _get some sleep, Dean_. Dean turned out the lights (Sam had a curfew now, too) and didn’t bother saying goodnight.

* * *

Cas catches up to the freak just outside Phoenix. Sam and Dean find him in the middle of draining another girl. Sam is waiting for a clean shot-they’re just out of the guy’s line of vision-and he’s about to take it when Dean growls out “all right then, let’s go get this freak,” and walks right in.

“Hey, Hannibal,” Dean shouts, gun out and steady. The guy still has no idea what’s going on when Dean shoots him between the eyes. It’s a good shot, and the guy drops like lead. Dean shoots him again, and again, and again until his clip runs empty and then he shoots blanks. Sam stares, slack jawed, cold settling in his stomach every time Dean pulls the trigger. One day he’s going to be the freak Dean’s taking out, he’s going to be on the receiving end of Dean’s full clip. They both knew, at that point. They’d both started seeing the freak on the floor as Sam, the guy who defiled himself, the guy who turned himself into a monster. Sam might be sick.

They get the girl out (she keeps her distance, eyes Dean’s trigger finger until they drop her off at the hospital) and torch the guy’s bones.

“Good riddance,” Dean mumbles, and Sam breathes deep through his nose.

Sam waits outside the car while Dean reloads his clip, knows Dean won't want to get Sam’s blood all over the upholstery. He waits for Dean to look him in the eye and shoot him, but Dean just puts his gun away and open his door.

“You comin’?” Dean asks, like Sam’s the one they’re waiting for.


	5. Myopic

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean is acting suspicious. Sam wants to die.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for waiting so long, guys. Hope this is okay :)
> 
> (UPDATED BECAUSE I FOUND A BETTER VERSION I HAD WRITTEN OF THIS CHAPTER: 10/10/16)

In Minnesota things go horribly wrong. Sam wakes up one day and Dean’s not drinking. Or having nightmares, or yelling at Sam, or leaving him behind to go to bars, or bossing him around on hunts. Sam’s not having nightmares either, actually. Dean asks Sam for advice on hunts, and then he makes a terrible joke about Sam’s hair.

Sam couldn’t even pretend he’d misread the situation, because a week later Dean was letting Sam drive, and a couple days after that Dean asked how he was feeling after he’d called Sam out for pretending to be asleep in the Impala.

There were a million reasons for the sudden change (possession, shape shifter, Sam was hallucinating). Sam had slipped holy water into Dean’s coffee, handed him silver, he hadn’t reacted to Christo and Sam was running out of tests. There’s nothing, really, for Sam to do except look for the devil and ignore it. Which Dean makes impossible.

“You have to eat, man.” Dean pushes Sam’s salad back across the table, raises his eyebrows like Dad used to when he thought Sam needed more protein.

“I can’t, Dean. Please.” Sam wasn’t used to Dean caring so damn much, noticing all the shit he was slipping on. His terrible sleeping patterns (he was lucky to get a nap every few days), his terrible eating habits (coffee was pretty much it for Sam), his lack of energy. Sam was a dying man and Dean was finally paying attention.

They leave the diner angry, because Dean had made Sam eat too much-he felt like he was going to hurl-and Dean just wanted Sam to take care of himself.

Dean starts talking about his feelings, about Sam’s feelings. He tells Sam that he really cares about him, that Lucifer getting out was on him, too. He tells Sam he didn’t leave the voicemail (God knows how he even found out about it), he doesn’t think Sam’s a monster at all and if Sam wasn’t sure something was wrong before that, he was positive then.

Sam avoids Dean as much as possible. It hurts to want this Dean more than he wants the real one. He’s a selfish piece of shit for aching every time this Dean smiles at him. For thinking maybe he should just keep things this way. No one was getting hurt, right?

They catch up with the Devil in Detroit, kill it with the colt and Sam almost feels clean. They saved the world (not saying a lot, since Sam’s the one who almost ended it). But it doesn’t sit right in his chest, everything was too easy. Dean was talking about settling down, getting an honest job. Sam wanted to cry.

Dean invites Sam out for celebratory drinks, not that Dean’s the one drinking. He nurses a beer while Sam chugs everything he thinks they can afford. Dean plays big brother as Sam gets himself smashed and Sam hates it.

"We beat the dev'l, huh, Dean?" Sam says.

'"We sure did, man." Dean smiles back.

"I killed Satan."

"Yeah, Sammy. You did real good." Dean looks at him with so much reverence Sam almost gags. Either Dean wasn't Dean or Sam was going to die tonight.

"Let's go." Sam's too drunk to haul Dean off his chair, but he tries anyway. Dean lets himself be pulled out of the bar, half carrying Sam to the car. Sam closes his eyes in the passenger seat, waits for Dean to get them somewhere.

"C'mon, Sam."

They're at the motel.

They hobble inside (well, Sam hobbles, Dean drags) and Dean doesn't move to tie Sam up, or get a knife, or check the bullets in his gun. Sam's stomach isn't doing very well, he hasn't stopped staring at Dean since they got into their room.

"You tired yet?" Dean asks.

"Dean, I'm fucking exhausted."

"Good. I'm planning on sleeping in tomorrow." Dean sighs, flops backwards onto his bed and Sam is so scared he's not going to follow through. 

"Dean." Sam brings Ruby's knife to Dean, sets it down in his hand.

"What the hell's this for?"

"The devil's dead, I'm drunk. There isn't gonna be a better time."

"Sam-"

Sam's really scared now. Scared of what Dean's going to do (he's a hunter, he knows his way around a knife), scared he's about to go to Hell with a bunch of demons whose leader he just killed, scared Dean isn't going to do it.

"Please," Sam says, and Dean looks disgusted for the first time since this started.

"You're right. You're drunk, Sam. This isn't--I'm not--" Sam doesn't need him to finish, he knows. This wasn't Dean and Sam wasn't going to die. 

This Dean gets up to hold Sam's shoulder when Sam starts sobbing (he feels insane, he must look completely insane) and rubs his back as Sam throws up in their bathroom. This Dean doesn’t call him a jackass for getting too drunk, doesn’t make fun of him for throwing up.

“What’s wrong with you, Dean? Just tells me what’s wrong and I’ll fix it,” Sam pleads, clinging to his brother’s collar, spit dribbling down his chin from being sick.

“Sammy, I’m fine, we’re fine,” Dean tells him, collapsing on the tiled bathroom floor next to Sam.

“I’m sorry, I think I did this.” Dean lets Sam mumble about Dean being wrong and Sam being fucked up. He drags him into bed and tucks him in, tells him he’ll feel better in the morning.

The next day, Sam’s head is pounding and his stomach is aching and the sun is way too bright when Dean tells him he found a house for them. He even pulls out a few college pamphlets from his duffel.

Sam couldn’t be sure if this was real or not. He put a bullet in his head either way.

* * *

 

He woke up to extremely numb arms and a throbbing neck. Actually, his entire body was throbbing. He was strung up in a cabin, freezing cold and barely touching the floor. Hunger pangs racked his body, moving even an inch cramped up all his muscles.

He’d already resigned himself to a slow death when Dean showed up a couple hours later.

“It was a djinn, Sam, c’mon-” he cuts Sam off the rope, carries him out to the car and they take off.

Sam shakes-practically convulses-as the feeling slowly leaks back into his arms. It starts as pin pricks, tingling uncomfortably until the blood really starts to work it’s way through his arms, and then it burns like lava, pain shooting up and down his arms in rivulets. Sam tries not to make too much noise, Dean doesn't really look like he hears.

“Hang on, I’ll get us a motel, a couple more minutes…”

They get a motel and Sam sprawls out on the farthest bed, squirming around in pain. Dean gives him a couple of their good pills to take the edge off and a granola bar. Sam doesn’t eat it, could barely bring his arms to his mouth to dry swallow the pills.

“So. Uh. How’d you get out?” Dean asks gruffly, not looking Sam in the eye. “Of the dream, I mean.”

“I just…woke up.”

They both knew that was a lie.

“What does Sam-Topia look like? Lots of books and a shitty nine to five?” Dean asks, half smiling but mostly accusing.

“I don’t remember.”

“Bullshit,” Dean rasps out, even though this couldn’t be hurting him half as much as it was hurting Sam.

“I don’t wanna talk about it,” Sam clarifies. Dean probably would have started railing into him if his body hadn’t spasmed in pain. Sam curls in on himself, squeezes his eyes shut and when he’s able to open them again Dean is gone. The pain killers knock him out a few minutes later.

He wakes up to Dean holding out another granola bar. Sam takes it and chews slowly. He can’t imagine thanking anyone for saving his life, but he does it anyway. It sounds fake, covered in plastic to his own ears and and Dean doesn’t even bother with a response.

He wants to ask Dean why the hell he looked for him in the first place, but he doesn’t have the energy. He could be dead, he really could be. Granted, he would be rotting in Hell, but at least he wouldn’t be pathetic and aching on the bed while Dean _wishes_ he’d just died. Really, Dean needed this as much as Sam did.

Sam’s arms are sore as hell but usable. Dean decides that’s good enough and he packs their bags.

After they hit the highway, Dean turns down the music. He doesn’t say anything, just looks over at Sam in the passenger's seat.

“You could have just left me,” Sam says quietly. He doesn’t look at Dean, pretends like he never said anything but Dean overreacts anyway.

He yanks the wheel over and slams on the brakes, screeching over the side of the highway. Sam tries not to react, but he can’t help the way his shoulders relax. He’s finally done walking on eggshells, feeling nauseous with anticipation all the time. He breathes slowly, not hiding the way his mouth twitches up. He’s out.

Ten minutes of Sam’s tension slowly rebuilding and Dean drooped over the steering wheel, rubbing at his temples and sighing intermittently and Sam breaks.

“What are you waiting for?” Sam asks desperately.

Dean blinks over at him, belatedly takes in his rigid spine and glazed eyes.

“I don’t know yet,” Dean says. He pulls the impala back onto the highway and takes off.

Sam slumps into the leather, pulls his mind back into gear and resolutely does not think about Dean killing him.


	6. If it Keeps on Raining

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sam and Dean hunt a Ghoul. Murphy's law applies.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> SO. I owe everyone the biggest apology in the world.
> 
> It's been almost a year and I really am so sorry. The last chapter was getting crazy insanely long so I figured I'd break it up into two. This is the end part one, it has to get worse before it can get anywhere at all.
> 
> WARNING FOR THIS CHAPTER: I got a little graphic, gross torture is involved. Again, I really am sorry.

Dean is screaming at him, Sam thinks he should be able to scream back. Something. He thinks it might have been important. He’s craning his neck, watching his blood and guts and arteries and whatever else the fuck is inside him seep out of his body. His skin was peeled off a while ago, he didn’t know where it went. There’s a ghoul perched over him, its mouth is dripping with Sam. His arm twitches, he watches himself struggle, maybe he’s trying to roll away but the ghoul grabs his face. It bends down, drags its teeth into Sam’s cheek and Sam screams (Dean will make fun of him for it later). There’s another one at his feet, but Sam couldn’t feel his legs anymore. He’s cold, he feels used, the wind whips into whatever torn muscle the ghouls didn’t eat. 

It’s been an eternity, Dean’s not screaming anymore. Turning his head to look for Dean exposes too much skin he doesn’t have, the ghouls have torn off most his face. There’s an aching rift where his big brother should be (he’s died before and this version was losing favor fast) but the ghouls haven’t gotten to his brain yet and he knows why Dean’s not there. The ghoul chomps into his neck at the same time Sam slurs he’s sorry, Dean. It’s a pathetic, desperate sound but Sam’s halfway to gurgling already and he doesn’t  _ care _ . He’s sorry, he’s sorry, he’s sorry until he can’t feel his stinging face or his shaking bones or the cold wind and his vision slips away.

When the day started, Dean was in a good mood. They’d gotten two out of four rings, a side job had  _ finally _ gone right for them. They’d stopped in Spokane for the night, incidentally picked up on a quick salt and burn, and--miracle of miracles--this one actually took.

They were sticking around just to be sure, but Sam’s research had been straightforward. It was pretty run of the mill, Sam got a name and grave plot in under an hour. Sure, Sam cracked his head on the gravestone at one point, but the grass had been slick with rain and he was tired, he wasn’t paying enough attention. Dean didn’t see him hit his head, figured he must’ve tripped. He snorted and handed Sam the shovel. Sam was too embarrassed to ask Dean to check for a concussion.

Dean took them out for dinner, he was in such a good fucking mood.

“I’m not that hungry. Why don’t you just call Cas?” Sam asked when they’d loaded everything into the car. He was feeling a little sick and he wanted to sleep off whatever he’d done to his head.

“Don’t be a prick, dude,” Dean eyes him, but his smile stays glued to his face.

So Sam shut up and tried to breath through his headache, deftly running his fingers through his hair again to check for blood. 

Dean found them an all night diner. They sat in a back booth, Dean took the side with the vantage point and Sam shuffled in across from him. He dropped onto the cushion that had lost all its cushioning. The waitress brings their silverware and their menus and their water. 

For all Dean wanted Sam to tag along, he didn’t make much of an effort to acknowledge his presence, so Sam lets himself zone out on the salt shaker, his mind going in loops around the devil and Dean’s voicemail and the smell of gasoline they hadn’t bothered to wash off.

“You gonna finish that?” Dean steals a fry and Sam looks down at the lettuce he’d been ripping apart with his fingertips. He pushes the whole plate over.

Dean was flirting with the waitress, he was in such a good mood. He gave her the same smile Sam had watched him give the last pretty waitress in the last back country diner. He was practiced enough to distract her from the dirt, from the gasoline and salt lingering all over them.

But Dean ate his pie (it smelled so sweet it made Sam nauseous, he couldn’t breath through his nose until Dean finished it) and left without saying goodbye. Maybe he was more tired than he was letting on.

It was late, sometime past midnight. Dean was fumbling the keys into the car when they heard a scream, and another, and another. They took off for the woods behind the diner with their guns but not much else, Sam following behind Dean. They find her by stumbling over her body. It was their waitress, probably. She was wearing the apron and the hair (though wet and dark with blood) looked right, but those were the only marking features left. She was a mess of blood and half chewed flesh, it smelled overwhelmingly of bile and Sam really was about to be sick when something barrelled out of the nearest thicket of trees.

“God  _ damn _ it,” Dean was kneeling next to her body, he didn’t stand up in time and the thing jumped him.

“Dean!” Sam yelled, trying to draw the thing’s attention away. Dean wrestles it away from the waitress’s body but it’s strong, Dean is losing. Sam’s only got normal bullets, the silver shells are in the impala and they don’t even know what this is. He shoots it anyway, twice in the back but it doesn’t slow down, just rolls off Dean and screams at Sam. 

“Shit,” Dean moans, cradling his arm and grasping around in the dirt for his gun. It looks like a man but its face is distorted and when it growls Sam can count rows of sharp teeth. It’s headed for Sam, now, and it’s all he can do to shoot again. Ten shots later Sam is out of bullets and the thing is on top of him, they crash to the ground and Sam lands hard on his shoulder. Sam’s just trying to keep it occupied, trying to keep the thing’s hands off his neck. But he’d already been so tired, his technique was sloppy and he was feeling sluggish. It knocked his head back, Sam saw stars, and the thing dug its teeth into his neck.

It ripped out a chunk of flesh. G _ houl _ , Sam thought blurrily. Dean yanked the ghoul off him, shot it point blank in the face. It howls and rears back, slinks away to lick its wound and Sam stumbles off the ground.

“It’s a ghoul, Dean, we need the machete,” Sam grunts out, clutching one hand to his neck.

“Sam--” Dean starts, but a twig snapped and he shut up. To their right, three more ghouls had showed up, one of them still a kid.

They were in bad shape. Dean’s wrist was probably sprained, Sam was missing a chunk of his neck, their machete was two miles away in the trunk of their car. They really weren’t going to win this one.

Sam lets out a breath through his nose, doesn’t look at Dean, and lets his hand fall from his neck. They could smell the blood, he knew, and he stepped forward, pulled out his knife and made a show of crouching down, acting defensive.

Sam couldn’t tell if the ghouls lunged at him or he lunged at them, but it happened too fast for Dean to realize what was going on. All three of them clamped onto him, he tried to swallow his groan but  _ god  _ they had long teeth. He let the knife drop when the kid’s teeth clamped onto the pulse point in his wrist, he hoped Dean had gone for the machete.

He lets them wrestle him onto the ground, he lets them eat him alive. Dean would be back, soon. Dean would have the machete, he would kill them.

* * *

 

“Always playing hero, aren’t you, Sammy?”

Sam feels so heavy, his feet aren’t touching anything and he’s strung up on something sickeningly hot. He shifts around, feels hooks tugging his skin and his organs and groans. His skin was scalding, like something was heating him from the inside out. His eyes watered, he couldn’t see anything but fire and empty space. He was a little glad for the hooks, Sam thought if he fell into the darkness he’d never stop.

“Or did you just want to see for yourself what’s waiting for you on the other side?” The Devil touches his fingertips to Sam’s tattoo (the skin melts right off his chest) and snakes his tongue into his ear, surprisingly cold and wet. “I’ll oblige, Sam. But only because I like you so much.” The fingers digging into Sam’s ribcage suggested otherwise but Sam didn’t bother deny it. He figured Hell was a marathon, not a sprint, and he had all of fucking eternity to while away his pride (his mind). Time was on their side, and the least he could do was keep Lucifer occupied while Dean and Cas figured something out.

The Devil smiles, even his eyes look sharp down here. Sam’s breath quickened. This was it. He would never see his big brother again. He was going to be Lucifer’s bitch forever. He was going to lose his mind. Maybe Lucifer knew exactly where his thoughts were, because his smile got wider and he dug his fingers in deeper.

“I think you’re gonna like it down here, Sammy.”

* * *

 

The time passes in waves, rippling through his skin like a drug. Lucifer liked to watch him, and Sam revelled in the distraction. When his mind wandered, when he was alone, he thought he could see something just on the edge of all that empty space. He thought he could hear something. It made him uneasy.

Sometimes Lucifer carves stories onto Sam’s back. They were impossibly long and obviously exaggerated and were all about redemption and favoritism. Sam couldn’t tell if the stories were about Lucifer’s father or Sam’s. Other times he flays Sam open with his hands, or Sam’s own sharpened bones. It’s excruciating, it’s constant, Sam feels wild without the breaks in time sleep used to provide. Everything about Hell hurt him, twisted him the wrong way and that was only the warm up, Lucifer told him.

Lucifer left for a long time. Sam was alone, with only the fire and his own bloody bones to keep him company and he could already feel his mind slipping. He occupied himself with his anatomy, counting the ribs he could see, flexing different muscles, naming different parts of himself he only semi-remembered from the medical terminology class he took his sophomore year. It was dull, it barely distracted him from the charred flesh of his back, slowly melting off from the fire behind him. He heard voices from inside the fire, they spoke in an old language Sam wasn’t familiar with and he was grateful for it. Sometimes he felt the things get close, close enough to touch him, but they only laughed and Sam couldn’t bring himself to turn around and look.

He would rather listen to the voices in the fire than whatever was in the empty space. It was just on the edge of Sam’s vision, and everytime he got close to making out a silhouette he lost focus. If he thought about it too long he would start to feel pressure on his body, like he was buried under tons of dirt and he couldn’t move. So he tried not to look for it, and he tried not to think about it, though he could still feel it watching him.

Lucifer showed up, finally, and closed up all the wounds he’d left on Sam. His hands were cool, gentle, and he was humming softly. Sam closed his eyes and pretended he was asleep. When he opened them again, his mom was standing in front of him, humming the same tune Lucifer had started and sewing up a split in his shoulder.. She smiles at him when she notices he’s watching, she brings her hand to his cheek and wipes at the tears he left there. “Sam,” she whispers, smiling like Sam figured a mother would and blood dribbles down her chin. She inhales, raising her eyebrows in shock and Sam looks down to see the blood painting her nightgown.

“Mom,” he chokes, thrashing against the hooks and chains as his mom collapses, melting as easy as plastic and Lucifer reappears. He sneers, dips his toe into the melting puddle of his mother and tells Sam not to worry, nobody really died in Hell. His mother would be brought back soon. Sam shook his head but said nothing.

After that, Lucifer brings around Marys and Johns and Deans and Jesses to play with. He’s ruthless, Sam watches. He might not be completely with it, but he was aware enough to know an allusion when he saw one. Lucifer gave up after a while. He went back to torturing Sam the old fashioned way. Lucifer cut Sam apart with so much patience it terrified him.

“Look at me, Sam.” When Sam didn’t, Lucifer ripped his eyelids away. “You are nothing. Humans aren’t good for shit. My dad made trillions of copies just like you, a bunch of little puppets for him to have fun with. Without me, you are nothing. 

“You think you’re better than me? You still think you sacrificing yourself to fix a mess  _ you  _ made cancels out any of your mistakes? You’re not a good person. You’re not loved by God. You were born out of evil. Or, did you not notice? Everything you do goes wrong, everyone you love either resents you or dies.” Sam sagged against the meat hooks, he thinks of Dean.

“God cast you out when he cast me out, Sammy,” Lucifer growls, eyes wild with rage. “He’s ignored us for centuries, do you think he’ll pay attention now? He’s moved on from this world anyway, I hear. He’s never had sympathy for us, Sam, there’s never been hope for anything but this. This is the only path left.” Lucifer’s teeth were growing into sharp canines, horns were poking out of his hair, he was angry. Sam’s ears were bleeding, his head felt too pressurized and Lucifer’s hands were fisting themselves inside Sam’s chest. “You will say yes, Sam.” Sam was coughing up blood, it was speckling Lucifer’s face as he shook Sam. 

For the first time since Sam died, Lucifer killed him. Sort of. As much as he could, them being in Hell. Slowly, excruciatingly slowly, Lucifer ripped Sam in half. Sam could not close his eyes, his eyelids were ripped off. When it was over, he looked into his own eye, half his innards dangling out and half his body so far away he couldn’t even reach it, Sam cried until he lost consciousness.

* * *

 

“You’ve been headed down this path a while now, Sam.” Jess was combing through his hair when he woke back up, brushing out the singed bits and unclumping the bloody knots.

“It’s okay, you’re gonna be fine.” He lost count of how many times Jess told him that, over and over and over until he believed it and then she raked her claws down his spine and ripped it out. She tried to choked him with it, but you can’t suffocate in Hell.

Sam thought of Dean. He reminded himself Jess was in heaven, Sam was not. Sam was occupying the Devil while Dean stopped the apocalypse. Or maybe he’d already stopped it, Sam never thought to ask.

Jess stopped choking him and reattached his spine. He shook his head, reminded himself it wasn’t Jess (again). But he’d been down there a while, and it was easy, it was  _ better _ , when Sam let himself believe this was Jess. That it was Dean, sewing up his stomach with Hell magic and mopping his blood back into him. It was easier, and no one was left to hate him for it besides Lucifer and himself, and they were both well versed in that arena anyway.

He’s chained to a scorching hot wall of fire but Jess wraps her arms around him, leans against his chest and tell him he’s okay again. Lucifer even smells like her, thick curls of blonde hair wafting up with the rose shampoo she always bought them. Sam knew it would be over soon, Jess would stand up and do something awful to him and he found the anticipation even more exhausting than the torture.

“I can’t. I’m sorry, I can’t,” Sam finally whispers out, his throat dry and cracked from the heat of fire and the lack of water.

Jess picks her head up, staring vacantly into Sam with eyes that weren’t really hers. “I know. It’s okay.” Jess’s hand is a claw again, she digs it into his stomach but it doesn’t hurt as bad as he was expecting. “I was exhausted when Azazel did this to me.” Her tongue turns forked, it’s wet against his cheek and it shatters the illusion, but he knows she’s telling him the truth anyway.

“He showed up a day before you did. I thought he was a nut job, but he could… do things. He knew things. About us. And I kept thinking, Sam would be back any minute now, I just have to hold on a bit longer.” She dragged her claws across his stomach to match the red line across hers. Sam pinched his mouth shut so he wouldn’t scream.

“I think he loved you more than I did, Sam,” Jess whispers. She pushed them back into the fire, nuzzling Sam’s neck and clinging to his arms. Jess burned with him, exactly like he remembered, skin turning a sick black color, cracking open like leather and the blood drying before it could spill out of the crevices, and then the skin curled up and fell away altogether. The smell was nauseating but he had nothing to throw up. 

“I wish you’d never come to Stanford,” she says, and Sam knows Lucifer’s telling the truth with that one, too.

* * *

 

Dean tortured him the most, which Sam had sort of expected. Time wasn’t a factor in Sam’s afterlife but Dean tortured him for what felt like months. Years. Sam didn’t know. Maybe it was only a couple hours. But Dean would scream at him, and tear into him, peel things open and do really fucking awful things until Sam was sure he’d never stop.

“Dad loved me best.” Dean says pettily, Lucifer was snorting under Dean’s dry lips. Sam rolls his eyes, so Dean pokes them out. “Yeah, yeah, I know. Old news. But you’re just so  _ unlikable _ , Sammy. You’re so stubborn. And you killed Mom.” Dean yanks on his legs and Sam’s skin tears, his guts spew out and drip off Dean’s face.

“You always thought you were better than us, huh? Because you had ambitions, because you didn’t drink, because you didn’t want to hunt.” Sam feels sick, and his nerve endings felt like they’d been stuck in an electrical socket. He’d thought he had leveled out his pain tolerance a while ago.

“You weren’t better than us. You just didn’t fit in. Me and Dad, we had a mission. We were saving people. You were, what, trying to find a decent nine-to-five?” Dean laughs. “You were selfish, little brother. Really.” Dean grabs a chisel from who knows where and starts hacking.

* * *

 

Lucifer is watching him again.

“This has been… enlightening. I hope you learned your lesson. I know I learned mine.” Sam pretends he doesn’t hear. Lucifer grabs his face.

“You can’t fight against fate. You and your brother, you can pretend you have a choice, but deep down you have to admit you’re lying to yourself. I don’t have the patience to put up with human arrogance. You were created weak. I’m an angel. What, in all of that, makes you think wasting time, running from me is going to save anyone?

“You will say yes, Sam. Soon.”

* * *

 

Sam wakes up spluttering and trying to scream, his throat too dry to make noise. Lucifer had been in the middle of a dissection, his lungs lying on the ground next to him. He’s freezing cold with the lack of fire, he’s sore from atrophy, he’s lying on a bed.

“Hey, hey, Sam. Look at me. You’re topside, you’re good,” Dean says firmly from a chair to Sam’s right. Sam bolts upright, groaning when the motion strains his sore muscles.

“Fuck, God,” Sam wheezes, grabbing his chest. He’s panicky, and he’s so cold his teeth are chattering. His eyes dart around the room, looking for Lucifer, for fire. Dean keeps leaning in, habitually getting closer to Sam but Sam inches away and presses himself against the opposite wall. 

He counts his breathes. He rubs anxiously at his arms, trying to get blood flowing. Dean pulls a blanket out from under the bed and throws it over him. Sam felt ridiculous, his cheeks were burning but Dean wouldn’t stop staring.  “What--What happened?”

“I’ve been meaning to ask you the same thing.” Dean says accusingly. He raises an eyebrow at him, jaw clenched. Sam flounders, he couldn’t remember what Dean was talking about, he didn’t know what was going on. “That conversation can wait,” Dean says, waving it off when he realized Sam was getting twitchy. “I don’t know jack. The ghouls showed up, you pulled some stupid shit, I ganked them, and you--it, uh. It wasn’t pretty. I called Cas, he said something about Lucifer, told me I’d just have to wait. Your body healed itself pretty quick, so I took that as a good sign.”

Sam looks around, there’s a wooden dresser and a wooden desk with some of Sam’s old books stacked on it with a wooden chair tucked into it. They were at Bobby’s.

“You with me?” Dean asks eventually. Sam stares at his boots.

“Dude, seriously. We’re at Bobby’s, you’re back from the dead, the apocalypse is still raging,” Dean says softly, Sam’s heart sinks.

“Fuck, Dean.”

Dean scoots forward on his chair, awkwardly clears his throat. “Sam, were you-”

Bobby wheeled himself in and Dean shut up, looking a little relieved.

“‘Bout time you got your ass moving,” Bobby says gruffly, but he’s smiling.

“Hey, Bobby,” Sam smiles up at him, looks away too fast and the smile fades almost instantly. 

“You really had us worried, there, kid,” Bobby says, his tone suggesting Sam was in trouble.  _ Don’t pull that shit again. _ He pats Sam’s arm but Sam jerks it away. He immediately tries to take it back,  he opens his mouth to apologize but Bobby shakes his head. “I’m just glad to have you back, boy.” Sam doesn’t know what to say to that except that he was sorry, so he says nothing. Bobby nods once and then straightens his back, claps one hand on Dean’s shoulder and rests the other on the wheel of his chair. “I’ve got chili on the stove, why don’t you boys wash up and help get the table cleared.” 

“Thanks,” Sam whispers, his throat still too sore. Bobby smiles again and wheels out of the room, leaving them in an uncomfortable silence.

“How long’s I out?” Sam croaks, staring up at the ceiling.

“Five days.”

Sam laughs wetly, blinking the glossiness away from his eyes. It felt like he’d been gone years.

“Sam,” Dean says softly, sounding a little lost. “It’s been real quiet up here.”

Sam knew.

Dean stands up after a couple minutes, wipes his palms on his jeans and looks toward the door. “C’mon. Let’s go get some chili.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So my ghouls are much less sophisticated than the canonical ghouls?? I like 'em animalistic, what can I say. 
> 
> Really, one more chapter this time. I'll try to be quicker than a year.


End file.
